


One Last Tuesday

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark Humor, Dean dies a lot but that's canon, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode AU: s03e11, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, No permanent character death, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 03, don't worry it doesn't stick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: Episode AU: What if Sam had tried to bargain with the Trickster instead of trying to kill him? What if the Trickster had told him there was a way out that Sam just had to figure out?
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 150





	1. Chapter 1

The Trickster was giving him a Devil-May-Care type of grin, and all Sam wanted to do was shove the stake hard through his throat and not even care who saw. Dean had been worried at first, and vocally so, until he'd heard what the Trickster had been up to, what he'd done to Sam.  
  
Over one hundred Tuesdays spent watching Dean die was more than enough reason for the Trickster to die.  
  
His brain was almost fully there too; they could dump the body behind the restaurant and be out of town within thirty minutes. There'd be no trace of a murder weapon, no ID probably on him, and he'd be another John Doe for the morgue to deal with.  
  
The tiny part of his brain that wasn't homicidal, the logical part, was telling him to stop.  
  
 _You couldn't kill him back at that campus,_ his inner voice reminded him. _He dropped a guy in a wormhole, sent you into a series of Tuesdays. You're not gonna get the upper hand on him here. This is NOT going to end the way you think it will. Shove the anger aside, bargain with him. Don't threaten him._  
  
Sam gritted his teeth, but did just that: he pulled the stake away and shoved it back inside his coat. His arms went out to his sides, hands up towards the sky. “Sam, what the hell?” Dean asked incredulously, but Sam didn't take his eyes off the Trickster.  
  
“You're free to go,” Sam said, even though his murderous fury was fighting to be seen and heard. “We won't come find you.”  
  
“The hell we won't-”  
  
“We _won't_ come _find you_ ,” Sam stressed, sending Dean a glare. Dean sent it right back at him. Sam turned his attention back to the Trickster, who looked...impressed. “Just let me out of the Tuesdays. With Dean alive,” he hastened to add.  
  
The Trickster raised an eyebrow. “Well I'll be,” he said, before whistling slowly. “Not bad, kiddo. Not bad at all. Brain over brawns; that'll win me every time.” He leaned away from the fence, still grinning. “You know, threatening me probably would've gotten you out of the Tuesdays. Of course, I don't think you would've liked it a whole lot. Irony: my favorite plaything.”  
  
Sam let himself think about it for a minute. If the Trickster had let him out of the time loop, then he'd have been free, no more reliving the day.  
  
His eyes widened. Dean probably would've died, and then there wouldn't have been a going back. He'd have been stuck. He felt his body slump and his eyes burned. “Oh god,” he managed faintly.  
  
The Trickster nodded. “Yeah. I didn't think you'd have liked it.”  
  
“You sonuvabitch,” Dean said, shaking his head slowly. His glare was aimed now at the Trickster; he must've figured it out, too. “Give him what he wants and then let him watch me die without the cushion of a time loop. Not bad. Sam, why aren't we killing him?”  
  
“Because I don't _want_ that future,” Sam said, before taking a deep breath. “Okay. What do you want from me to let me out?”  
  
“Kid, you've got it all wrong,” the Trickster said. “I don't want anything from you chuckleheads. Besides, you know, the chuckles. In all honesty, this is kinda getting boring. I don't normally stay so long in a town before I move on; I'm itching to go south again. All sorts of fun to be had around the border.”  
  
Sam stared at him. “So you'll let me out?” he asked. A tiny bit of hope that hadn't quite been stripped from him began to rise.  
  
The Trickster stopped for a moment, the grin falling into something softer, almost sympathetic. “How about this: you find your own way out.”  
  
Sam couldn't breathe. He had to be kidding, right? “Not kidding,” the Trickster said, as if reading his mind. Maybe he could. “You can get yourself out. C'mon, your big brain got you this far, to me, though you were a little slow on the uptake for what, how many Tuesdays did you have?”  
  
“Enough,” Sam muttered. “And I was a little busy worrying about Dean and watching him _die_ on a daily basis, thanks so much.”  
  
The Trickster shrugged. “Little details. But anyways, what I'm saying is that you can get yourself out. You could've gotten yourself out AGES ago. You make it to Wednesday, it's done. Boom, bada-bang. Plus, to make it to Wednesday, Dean _has_ to live, so it's all good, right?”  
  
“Right,” Sam echoed tonelessly. How the _hell_ could he have gotten himself out of the Tuesdays?  
  
Dean was glancing between him and the Trickster like he was following a ping-pong game. “What about the professor? You gonna let Hasselback go?” Dean finally said, jumping into the flow of things.  
  
Thank hell Dean was there to think of these things, because Sam sure as hell wasn't. His mind was firmly stuck on _could've gotten out ages ago_ and _I can't watch Dean die again I can't I can't I CAN'T_.  
  
The Trickster began to make a face, and Sam plowed through. “I'll make you a deal. Bargain,” he rephrased after a moment. They didn't need to have more deals on them; the one Dean had made was bad enough. “I make it to Wednesday, you let the professor out of the wormhole.”  
  
The Trickster sighed in exasperation. “ _Fine_ ,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “You get to Wednesday, I'll let the idiot out. Send him home to his daughter dearest. You happy?”  
  
“Not ecstatic, but I'll take it,” Sam said. He still didn't have the foggiest clue on how to get out, though.  
  
The Trickster stared at him long and hard. “I'll give you one last clue, Scooby-Doo,” he said, raising his right hand. “You've been through _every_ possible Tuesday there could ever be. From here on out, this station's airing reruns. It's up to you to figure out which one'll get you closest to your target.”  
  
He snapped his fingers, and the world fell away. By the time he woke up, Asia blaring to his right, Sam was pretty certain he knew what he had to do.  
  


* * *

  
  
By the end of breakfast, Sam had pieced it all together. There was only one Tuesday that would guarantee his getting to the end of the day. Ironically (and that had been Sam's first clue that he was on the right track), it was the _first_ Tuesday he'd had, all those days ago.  
  
The only downside was that it was the last Tuesday he wanted to revisit. If he screwed up, Dean was going to get shot, and Sam would still have Dean in his arms, dying with his eyes latching onto Sam one last time with the clock minutes from midnight.  
  
Just because he knew which Tuesday had to occur and how to get his results didn't mean he knew how to fix it, though, so he could get to Wednesday.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Sam glanced up from his mug to Dean's worried face. “You didn't even touch your food,” Dean said, raising his eyebrow. “And you've been nothing but twitchy since you woke up this morning. What gives?”  
  
Sam glanced over at the counter. The Trickster was there in the guise of the business man, stepping away from his finished plate. “Nothing,” Sam said, turning back. This was up to him. The Trickster was being good enough to let him out if he could find the way out.  
  
Dean didn't look like he was buying it. “You done?” Sam asked, sliding out of the booth to stand.  
  
A hand caught his arm and pulled him back, though. If anything, Dean's concern had piqued. “Dude, all you've had is caffeine,” Dean said. “You didn't take a single bite.”  
  
“You counted?” Sam couldn't help but retort.  
  
“Your fork's not even dirty,” Dean said, glaring now. “Eat something.”  
  
Even the smell of the food made Sam's stomach twist. He'd eat when it was Wednesday. “Really can't, Dean,” he said, pulling away from Dean's grasp and heading for the door.  
  
He wasn't outside long when he heard Dean come up behind him. “Seriously Sam, what's going on with you?” Dean asked. The dog on their right began to bark at them, and Sam turned a full glare on it, well remembering _that_ Tuesday.  
  
The dog whimpered and backed down.  
  
Sam sighed. He needed to pitch the idea to Dean now so they'd pause for about ten seconds, then step into the road which would then be vacant. Dean, though, wasn't going to be in the mood to hear it if he was worried about Sam. “I just...”  
  
He couldn't explain the time-loop to Dean. Not this time around. He hadn't that first time, and he was terrified of what he'd change if he did it now. “Can we take a break after this one?” he found himself blurting out.  
  
Dean frowned, then frowned again when Hasselback's daughter bumped into him. He didn't even spare her a second glance this time, though, just kept walking with Sam. “A break?” he asked incredulously.  
  
“Yeah. See the Grand Canyon; we always keep saying we will, but we never do,” Sam said. “And the ocean. We should stop at the ocean for awhile.”  
  
The movers began griping at each other as they passed by the doorway with the desk (and man had THAT felt good to break apart with his axe on the 76th Tuesday) and both Winchesters ignored them. When Dean stopped and refused to budge, Sam gave him as much of the truth as he could. “I just...I just feel like I'm surrounded by death,” he said, before snorting. Understatement of the year. “I can't get away from it, you know? It feels like it's surrounding me, like it's gonna swallow me, and I can't...I can't do it anymore, Dean. I can't.”  
  
Dean was giving him a look as if he wasn't sure whether to be afraid or worried or both. “Just one break, I swear, and then we can get back to the hunt,” Sam pleaded.  
  
He hadn't even thought of a break, to be honest, until the words had come tumbling out. A few days from hunting, and then he'd be fine. He needed to see Dean relaxing, needed to relax himself, needed to not worry about Dean getting killed on a hunt (because god knew the problems that could arise THERE). Just a few days.  
  
Dean regarded him for a moment, looking even more worried. “Can we talk about this afterwards?” Sam asked, feeling anxious again. They had certain spots they had to get to for this Tuesday to bring them close to Wednesday. “I think I've got an idea of what happened to the professor, anyways.”  
  
“Like what?” Dean asked, frowning but following Sam's lead in the change of subject.  
  
“The local Mystery Spot.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes and started walking again, and Sam moved to keep up. “Dude, those things are just gimmicks.”  
  
“Maybe this one isn't. Maybe it's the real deal, and we need to take it seriously. Stranger things have happened,” Sam said. “Maybe there's...some sort of spirit haunting the place.”  
  
“Cursed land,” Dean offered, getting into it. Sam wanted to roll his eyes but refused to do so. Let Dean believe it, and then tonight-  
  
Sam swallowed hard.  
  
“Could be worth looking into,” Dean said, turning to him. “We'll check it out tonight, after everyone's gone.”  
  
 _No no NO! Gunshot, blood on his jacket, trembling body heavy to hold-_  
  
“Sounds like a plan,” Sam managed.  
  
“Dude, are you seriously okay? You're kinda freaking me out here,” Dean admitted. “You look like you're waiting for something horrible to happen.”  
  
 _No shit, Sherlock,_ Sam wanted to toss at him, but he couldn't. It really wasn't funny, anymore. Maybe it would be funny again in a couple of weeks.  
  
Months. Years.  
  
He was one foot off the curb when Dean's hands grabbed his jacket and pulled him back. The cursed car went flying by, Mr. Pickett glaring at them as he went. “Dude, do you _want_ to see Wednesday?” Dean asked, staring at him with anger and a lot of concern.  
  
Sam probably didn't help the concern any when he burst out laughing. It wasn't supposed to be funny, but it really sort of was.


	2. Chapter 2

The day passed by without event, with Sam following the pattern of the first Tuesday. Finally, at around eleven-thirty, they found themselves picking the lock to the Mystery Spot.  
  
Sam had the insane urge to grab Dean and just _run_. They were so close! _So close_ to Wednesday, Sam thought he might scream. Another thirty minutes, 1,800 seconds, and they'd be home free.  
  
The door opened into the neon green hallway, the corny music playing softly above them, and Dean stepped inside. Sam took a deep breath and followed.  
  
He brought the EMF along merely to play the part. He probably didn't need to, but...better to play it safe. He kept checking his watch, though, as they went. 11:38 pm.  
  
Dean made a few smart-ass remarks about the place, and Sam found himself silently agreeing. As he walked through the room, his eyes kept darting over towards the other entrance. By the time they got themselves over there, the door would open, the owner would come out with the weapon-  
  
And Sam still had no idea how to change it.  
  
He was shaking with nerves now, desperation making his gut tighten and his muscles jump. So _close_.  
  
“Do you even know what you're looking for?” Dean asked, giving him a look.  
  
Sam waved the EMF meter in front of a display and shrugged. “It could be anything in here. Who knows where all the furniture and items came from, you know?” It was an idea he'd entertained for a few Tuesdays. “Like Bloody Mary. Remember?”  
  
“Remember. Right. Like I'm gonna forget your eyes bleeding and your heart almost bursting anytime soon,” Dean muttered under his breath.  
  
It was good to know that it wasn't just Sam who remembered all the near death experiences, either. Or, of course, the actual death experiences. Whichever.  
  
11:49 pm, and Sam finally led them over to the last place. “You okay?” Dean asked behind him, and the frown and concern were evident in his voice. “Got quiet for awhile, which you don't ever tend to do.”  
  
Sam tried to smile at the joke, but he couldn't. When had the owner pulled the trigger? How much time did he have?  
  
Dean sighed. “Look, if you're seriously stressing out that much about the hunting and stuff, we can take a break. I don't care. I mean, I know...I know you've been worried about the whole destiny crap, which is all it is: crap. I know it.” Another pause, and he could hear Dean stepping closer. “Are you _shaking_? Sammy, what the _hell_ -”  
  
“What the hell are you doin' here?!”  
  
Sam whipped his head around just as Dean did, Dean already raising his gun. Sam immediately put his hands into the air. “Whoa, whoa, whoa whoa _whoa_ , we can explain,” Dean said hastily, as soon as he realized just who was aiming a gun at them.  
  
The guy's hand shook on the gun, and Sam tried to breathe, then shifted slightly to the left. The owner immediately pointed the gun at him. “You robbin' me?” the owner asked.  
  
The words weren't at all hard to remember. “Look, no one's robbing you, calm down,” Sam said, willing the owner to listen to him this time, to _please_ calm down and not accidentally shoot someone.  
  
Not accidentally shoot Dean.  
  
Dean moved, and the gun was aimed on him, and Sam knew what was coming next. He was down to seconds now, he had to do _something_ -  
  
“Don't move!” the owner shouted, and suddenly Sam knew what he had to do.  
  
Dean was lowering the gun to the floor, opening his mouth to explain what he was doing, and Sam said the words instead. “He's just putting the gun down,” before he took a full step to the right towards Dean.  
  
The gun went off.  
  
Sam flew back and onto the floor, grunting. It was only a second later that his body registered the blow, and he gasped as pain flared from his abdomen.  
  
“SAM!”  
  
Then Dean was there, hauling him up and pulling him into his arms. Sam whimpered at the movement, felt Dean's hands tighten as a result. “Call 911,” Dean said to the owner, his voice trembling.  
  
“I-I didn't mean-”  
  
“NOW!”  
  
The owner was ignored, and Dean was glancing down at him, eyes bright. “Sammy?” he whispered.  
  
Sam blinked, then blinked again. He could feel his blood running down his skin, making his clothing wet, and he felt cold. His vision wavered, and it hurt to breathe.  
  
He was dying.  
  
“Just...just hang on for me, dude. You're gonna be fine. Just...oh god. No, no no no, not like this...”  
  
He blinked hard, his eyes catching onto Dean's watch. 12:01 am.  
  
He'd done it. It was Wednesday.  
  
Sam began to laugh, helpless tears rolling down his face. He was dying, Dean was crying now, but the joy was overwhelming him. “I did it,” he whispered to Dean.  
  
Dean straightened his lower lip enough to ask, “Did what, Sammy?”  
  
“I got out,” Sam breathed, before he closed his eyes. It was _over_.  
  
Even through his joy, though, Sam couldn't help but hate himself, too. Irony didn't even begin to cut it: Dean's death had rewound the day; Sam's death would end it. Now, Dean was going to be alone, and there was nothing he could do. Dean was the one holding his dying brother now, and even for the longed-for Wednesday, Sam wouldn't have wanted it at that expense.  
  
He couldn't feel Dean's arms around him anymore, and Dean's frantic voice faded away to nothing.  
  


* * *

  
  
When Sam opened his eyes again, he half expected to hear Asia.  
  
He wasn't in the motel room, though, and the only sounds he could hear were soft voices and a paging system.  
  
After a few blinks, he was able to focus. White room, white bedding, light-blue scratchy gown, dark-clothed brother in the chair beside him. Sam turned towards Dean.  
  
Dean's head was down, eyes locked on the floor. He looked exhausted and wrecked, and that made Sam's gut tighten again. “Dean?” he rasped, before he cleared his throat.  
  
Dean's head whipped up, red-rimmed eyes meeting his. “Is it Wednesday?” Sam asked.  
  
Dean stared, before he barked out a laugh. “It's _Friday_ ,” he said. “Well past Wednesday.”  
  
Even better yet. Sam closed his eyes with a smile. He didn't care about the owner, or the wound that was now throbbing near his right hip. They were out of Tuesday, and that was enough for him.  
  
When he opened his eyes, though, Dean still looked haunted. The first glimmers of a frown began on Sam's face. “Dean?”  
  
“I've rehearsed this conversation a million times in my head,” Dean said, running a hand over his face. “Not like I haven't had the time, you know, since my baby brother's in the hospital because he's got an apparent death wish. So just shut up and listen, all right?”  
  
Sam's frown became more tangible. Death wish...?  
  
“If...If you needed a break, Sam, you could've just spoken up,” Dean started. “I mean, I wouldn't blame you, after all of this. What happened with the witches and then worrying about the Colt, which, if I ever find Bela, no one's ever gonna find her again,” he added with a mutter. “I just...dammit Sammy, if you needed to step out of hunting for awhile, just _say_ something, all right? Dying's not the way to get out of the game. Okay? It's just _not_.”  
  
“Dying...?” Sam asked, bewildered, before it hit him. His words on Tuesday had made perfect sense to him, because he knew the score. _I just feel like I'm surrounded by death...I can't...I can't do it anymore, Dean. I can't....I did it. I got out._  
  
He hadn't filled Dean on about the time-loop. Oh god.  
  
“Dean,” Sam began, but Dean waved his hands.  
  
“I told you to shut up and let me finish,” Dean said, sounding angry. Sam knew what was fueling the anger, though. “I mean, I just...how long have you been feeling like this? Because I thought I was watching out for you pretty well, and somehow this slipped under the radar. It's like you just woke _up_ feeling this way-”  
  
“Dean-”  
  
“-which is impossible, and I said shut _up_ -”  
  
“I don't want to kill myself,” Sam finally said, raising his eyebrows. “Okay? I swear, Dean, and I'll explain everything.”  
  
Dean stopped mid-tirade and frowned. “Explain? Explain what?”  
  
“The everlasting Tuesdays.”  
  
“The _what_?”  
  
Sam just shook his head. “Not here, not now. Can we just get out of here?”  
  
Dean narrowed his gaze. So much for that plan. “Sam, you were just unconscious for a good two days because of a freakin' _gunshot_ wound. Which, by the way, we're not being arrested for, because they bought my story about us being undercover agents searching into Hasselback's disappearance. So we're scot-free on that one.”  
  
“Good,” Sam said, sighing. “I didn't really want to deal with it.” He'd dealt with enough, thank you.  
  
“So yeah, you're not going anywhere anytime soon,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “We'll be here for another couple of days, to make sure the wound's okay. You're just lucky you're taller than I am; he was aiming for my heart, and he didn't even waver the gun, just swiveled and turned it on you.”  
  
“How's Hasselback?” he couldn't help but ask. “His daughter find him?”  
  
Dean froze, staring at Sam. “How'd you know-”  
  
“Lucky guess,” Sam said, shaking his head. For all his pranks, the Trickster held by his word.  
  
And Sam would hold by his: there'd be no searching for the Trickster. Ever. He'd let him go south or east or wherever the hell he wanted to go, and if they ever found something that sounded like it was him...  
  
Well, they'd leave it alone and advise Bobby to spread the news to others to do the same.  
  
“Earth to Sam?” Dean asked, waving his hand in front of Sam's face. “Hello?”  
  
“Still here,” Sam said, shoving Dean's hand away and wincing when it pulled on the wound. “Knock it off.”  
  
“Hey, dude, I'm totally entitled,” Dean said, glaring at him. “When you have to sit and watch your brother die, you're allowed to be as obnoxious as you want. And I've seen you die _twice_ now, because your heart stopped on the way into the hospital, therefore I'm so beyond entitled, it's not even funny.”  
  
Except it was, and Sam began to laugh, long and hard. There was a thin line between joy and tears, though, and the laughter changed on a hitched breath to a sob. He couldn't catch it in time, and he shut his eyes tight, his head falling forward as he cried.  
  
It was _over_.  
  
A familiar arm pulled him down and to the left, where a shoulder was waiting for him to cry on. “It's all right, Sammy,” Dean murmured.  
  
“It wasn't,” Sam choked out. “You kept dying, and I couldn't...I couldn't...”  
  
A pause, then the hand was gently rubbing his arm. “Okay, I think you need to tell me exactly what the hell happened,” Dean said softly. “Because it doesn't sound like fun.”  
  
No, it really hadn't been. He continued to sob, just as hard as he'd laughed only minutes before. Every single death he'd had to watch was ingrained into his brain. He knew, even after he told Dean what had happened, that he'd still be watching his brother eat, watching him walk across the road, watching him load a weapon differently. He knew now practically every single thing that could happen to Dean.  
  
And he knew that in a few short months, he was going to have to watch Dean die one last time. That time, though, there wouldn't be a time-loop. Just Dean getting dragged off to hell.  
  
Even as he cried, his fingers found Dean's shirt, and he wrapped his fingers in the material tightly. Just let them try. Sam had seen Dean die enough times, and enough was _enough_.  
  
He'd be damned before he saw Dean die again.


End file.
